Page 12 of What We Burn

The asshole is currently zip-tied to a chair in an abandoned warehouse on the south side of town. We’ve had him for about forty minutes and he’s already hit notes I didn’t know the human vocal range could produce. If American Idol had a category for guys being tortured, Tyler would be headed straight to Hollywood.

“Please—I don’t know what you want—please⁠—”

I lean back against the workbench and crack my knuckles. The skull mask itches. They always itch—they’re nothing but cheap rubber with zero ventilation. They smell like a Halloween store on November first—fucking awful.

Tyler can’t see my face, he can’t see Micah’s face, he can’t identify either of us as anything other than two men in black with skulls for heads. Horror movie shit. Which is exactly the point.

“Tyler.” I keep my voice low, flattened, nothing like the Milo anyone would recognize. Tonight I’m a shadow. A man in work mode, and my work involves getting the information we need out of this fucking prick. “We’re going to try this again. And this time, I’d really love it if you could answer the question without the sound effects.”

Tyler’s chair is in the middle of the concrete floor, positioned under the one working overhead light so he looks like a very sweaty, very scared centerpiece—with his left eye swelling shut from when Micah lost his patience.

I mean, seriously, who’d have thought Micah capable of that? Micah, who makes chamomile tea when someone’s having a bad day. Micah, who carries spiders outside rather than kill them. That Micah put his fist through Tyler’s eye socket without even being provoked. Best day ever.

“Your friend Brock,” I say. “Tell me what you know.”

“I already told you, I don’t know where Brock⁠—”

“Not where. What.” I push off the workbench and walk a slow circle around the chair. Tyler’s head tracks me, or tries to—it’s hard to track anything when one eye is a plum. “Did you know what Brock did to women?”

Tyler’s good eye darts between me and Micah, who’s standing against the far wall with his arms folded. The mask makes Micah look like something out of a nightmare.

“Brock didn’t—he wasn’t⁠—”

“Wrong answer.”

I grab the back of Tyler’s chair and tip it onto two legs. He yelps, the tea kettle squeal hitting a new octave. I hold him there—balanced between upright and a skull fracture—while I bring my mask close enough for him to see nothing but teeth and shadow.

“Your buddy Brock was a rapist, Tyler. We know it. You know it. And the thing that’s going to determine how the rest of your night goes is whether you knew it before he disappeared or whether you found out after.”

“He wasn’t a rapist!” Tyler’s voice cracks. Snot is running freely from his nose, mixing with the blood from a cut I opened on his cheekbone. “Brock was a good guy. He had girls all over him—he didn’t need to force anyone⁠—”

I let the chair drop. All four legs slam the concrete and Tyler’s teeth clack together so hard I hope they chip.

A surge of pure, jagged disgust rolls through me. He thinks he’s protecting a friend. He has no idea that the “good guy” he’s mourning was turned into ground meat by the woman I love, the woman who is currently in a hospital bed.

My mind flashes back to Sage on that beach, drenched in moonlight and a monster’s blood, the knife in her hand. She didn’t just survive Brock; she erased him.

“Let me get this straight,” I say, pulling out my knife. “You think rape is a result of a supply-and-demand problem? A guy can’t get laid so he takes it? That’s your understanding?”

Tyler sputters. “That’s not what I⁠—”

“From where I’m standing, the guys who ‘have girls all over them’ are exactly the ones who think they’re entitled to whatever they want. Including the ones who say no.”

Tyler shakes his head frantically. “He wasn’t—look, maybe he pushed things sometimes, but girls loved Brock, okay? He didn’t need to—he just said shit, you know? Trash talk. Most of it wasn’t even true. He would, like, exaggerate. For laughs. He didn’t⁠—”

He looks up at me, searching for mercy. Verifying that there’s a person behind the mask.

There isn’t. Not for him.

I crouch so we’re eye-level, bring the knife blade up and turn it so he can see his own mangled reflection in the metal. “This is your last chance to tell the truth, Tyler.”

“I don’t know anything!” He’s crying now. Full, ugly, body-shaking sobs. “I swear to God!” His crying stutters to a sudden halt. “Wait. Are you the reason Brock went missing?”

I don’t answer. I let the silence do the work.

Tyler’s one good eye widens, the gears finally grinding into place behind all that panic. “Holy shit. You are. You’re the reason he’s gone.” His voice shifts—still scared, but there’s an ugliness creeping in underneath. Righteousness. The kind that comes from being a man who’s never once considered he might be wrong. “I was right about that bitch, wasn’t I? Sage? She accused him of raping her and you believed her.”

My grip tightens on the knife. Behind me, I hear Micah shift his weight.